Son of Pain, Earned in Full
by Lasrevinu
Summary: GSR, post finale. Sara is having a hard time. Unfluff.


Disclaimer: I do not own CSI or Homer's epics.

Spoilers: Up to _Living Doll_

Summary: GSR, post finale. Sara is having a hard time. Un-fluff.

Rating: T

A/N: A bulk of this was written before 7x23 aired. I abandoned it, only to pick it up again and go in a new direction post-finale. It's kind of a downer. Thanks to SBT.

**Son of Pain, Earned in Full**

_Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns  
driven time and again off course, once he had plundered  
the hallowed heights of Troy._

She wasn't quite sure exactly how he talked her into getting a dog, but the period from suggestion to reality was very, very short. "We ought to get a dog," he told her out of the blue one day, and before she could blink, Sara was on her knees scrubbing muddy paw prints off of the hardwood floors in their entryway. She supposed she shouldn't have been surprised at the speed his suggestion came to fruition. The events leading to her coming to live in his townhouse unfolded in very much the same way: he suggested it, she gaped, and the next day he was at her apartment with corrugated cardboard ready to be folded into boxes to cart away the effluvia that was her life.

It was right after Brass had been shot. Grissom told her that he was getting tired of going back and forth, living half lives. As she had packed her treasures into a box he neatly labeled "STORAGE," Sara wondered if he had ever truly been comfortable in her home. He never really said anything to make her think so, but the eagerness with which he was loading her underwear and nightgowns into the "UNMENTIONABLES" box had her wary. He'd never have to spend another day in her apartment, in her space, and he seemed really happy about it.

"All done," Grissom said, smiling at her as he finished taping up the last box. He began taking the boxes, two at a time, out the front door to be loaded in the U-Haul he had rented for the occasion. He met her back in the practically empty apartment. The super had agreed to find a good home for her larger pieces of furniture. It hadn't occurred to Sara that she'd have to leave stuff behind, but Grissom had quickly reminded her early into the move that they didn't need two beds. "And you might as well leave the sheets," he had told her. "They're too small for my bed."

She had stared at the neatly folded bed linens on the now-naked mattress for a long time. It wasn't as if they were the worlds most expensive sheets and she hadn't painstakingly picked them out to match the décor of the rest of her bedroom. They were just sheets. Her sheets.

_Of all that breathes and crawls across the earth,  
our mother earth breeds nothing feebler than a man.  
So long as the gods grant him power, spring in his knees,  
he thinks he will never suffer affliction down the years._

Sara wiped her sweaty brow before continuing her effort to rid the foyer of paw prints, their owner scowling in the corner after his scolding. "Bath next," she told Argos, who quickly looked away towards the front door, waiting for his favorite person to come home.

She had no idea why the dog wasn't fond of her. She was the one who prepared his meals -- special dinners for his sensitive stomach that didn't exacerbate any of his allergies. It was her shoes that he preferred as his personal chew toys. She cleaned up after him, gave him his baths, and brushed his teeth so that his breath wasn't so very foul. It was her favorite potted plant that he had decided to play with, resulting in the mess that lay before her. By virtue of the work she put into him, Argos should've loved Sara more.

But he didn't.

She shook her head and took the dust buster to the last of the dirt on the floor. After doing her best to reassemble the sad looking plant, Sara took Argos by the collar and led him to the spare bathroom. As usual, he refused to get into the tub, so, as usual, she had to lift him up into it, struggling as he tried to pull away from her. "Come on," she moaned.

She learned to make quick work of cleaning him. One out of every five escape attempts resulted in her chasing a soapy, slippery dog around the townhouse. This time she managed to finish without much of an incident. He jumped out of the tub only once and Sara quickly blocked his movement with her body. He crashed into her, soaking her T-shirt through and through before she could wrangle him into a large towel. "I hate you," she muttered, wiping him down.

Sara could hear the front door open and shut. She let her hands drop as the dog bounded out of her arms straight towards the sound of Grissom's voice.

"I'm home."

She rolled her eyes and didn't bother to get up.

After a few minutes, Grissom appeared at the doorway of the bathroom. "You gave him another bath?"

"He needed another bath."

He eyed her soaked form. "Looks like you got one, too."

She sighed, removing her shirt. "I'm going to take a shower. I feel disgusting. I'll see you later," she told him, not bothering to look back as she turned on the faucet once again to rinse out the tub.

"Okay."

"Close the door, will you?" she asked as she shed the rest of her clothes.

"Yes, Sara."

Once she was safely behind the curtain, she folded her arms and rested them against the tiled wall, using her forearms as a pillow for her head. She had forgotten what it was like to be happy.

_But then, when the happy gods bring on the long hard times,  
bear them he must, against his will, and steel his heart.  
Our lives, our mood and mind as we pass across the earth,  
turn as the days turn…_

Things began well for them -- she enjoyed their time together, and thought he did, too, but then he suggested the move, shaking her foundation and making her question what she had thought was a year of pure bliss.

"It'd be easier if we didn't have to go back and forth," he had rationalized. "Less hectic. Plus, I live closer to the lab and have more space. We wouldn't be cramped."

Cramped. He had continued talking, but all she heard was "cramped." He felt cramped in her small home, her sanctuary. She had worked so hard to make it comfortable for him. Sara stocked his favorite foods the moment he voiced his preferences, signed up for all the premium cable channels when he casually mentioned he enjoyed The Sopranos now and again, and quickly cleared her desk of knickknacks so he would have some room to put his stuff when he worked from her place. She had felt so good to do those things, so happy just to make him happy. She wasn't prepared for him to want to change all that. She had thought she'd done a good job.

So she moved in with him at his suggestion, hoping that whatever unhappiness he had felt in their arrangement would be rectified. In time, Sara found her comfort zone. He was attentive, he listened to her and considered her feelings and she was able to blossom. They were equals. It was at that point -- just as she was beginning to feel comfortable calling his house her home -- that Grissom pulled the rug out from under her, informing her of his sabbatical.

And in a flash, Sara's unease returned. She was back to square one -- unsure of herself and unclear of the best course of action to take.

With a few spare words, he left her physically. And in silence, Sara began leaving Grissom emotionally.

When he returned, refreshed from his month long break, she put on a smile, though one foot was always out the door, ready to bolt at the first sign of his displeasure. But the grin just stayed plastered on his face and Sara went with it. He wanted a dog, she accepted the responsibility. He asked her to shave his beard, she was ready and waiting with a straight razor. Her smile may have been a bit brittle, but he didn't notice. He was refreshed from his break and whatever had plagued him plagued him no more.

But the seed of doubt had been planted at that moment. Or no, perhaps it had been planted much earlier. Sara had lived on shaky ground as far as Grissom was concerned for years. For years upon years. For every moment she had believed that he cared for her, there had been a moment equally powerful to dispel the thought. It was that way until he had offered to drive her home from Nick's 'Welcome Back' party and kissed her in the car. He offered no explanation for the kiss. When he pulled away from her mouth slowly as he sat back against the driver's seat, he took her hand in his and brought it to his lips.

Putty in his hands is what she was.

And she remained as such, following his lead, going at his pace. He never explained why, after years of resisting, he had chosen to give in to the attraction between them that night, and she never bothered to ask. Sara longed for some poetic answer, an in-depth reason detailing his love for her. But more than she wanted sweet words, she feared apathetic ones. She envisioned asking Grissom "Why now?" so many times, and in her head his answer was always along the lines of, "I just didn't want to be alone anymore."

Fear always trumped hope, and so she remained quiet, often dwelling over it while he slept contentedly at her side. In her good moments, she truly believed that he loved her. He had never said as much out loud, but it was implied on several occasions.

Or was it?

Her fears flourished in his absence. Sara wanted to believe his feelings ran as deep as hers did, but she was too afraid to ask. There was safety in not knowing. She could still tell herself he came home to her, he kissed her goodnight.

And it was enough until it wasn't.

_By god, I'd rather slave on earth for another man—  
some dirt-poor tenant farmer who scrapes to keep alive—  
than rule down here over all the breathless dead._

She heard that many people who had near-death experiences faced life with greater enthusiasm after their brush with the hereafter. Or maybe that just happened in the movies. Either way, enthusiasm was not a feeling Sara could muster after she had become the last in Natalie Davis' long string of life-size props. Truth be told, enthusiasm wasn't something she had been capable of for a while.

She was numb -- in shock. Her quiet, withdrawn demeanor was attributed to what happened with Natalie. Grissom quietly tended to her like a mother hen, and Sara didn't have the energy to wonder if he did so out of misplaced guilt of if he truly loved her. She was dead inside. And the scary thing was…Natalie had nothing to do with it.

Or, well…Natalie accelerated what had already been put in motion before the Mustang had rested on her back, pushing her down into the Earth. Sara was sinking.

Before she returned to work, he had sat her down and cupped her jaw gently. "The team knows."

"What?"

"About us."

"Oh…that."

"Just the four of them. And Brass. No one else," he told her. "They won't tell."

"Okay." She didn't care if they did or they didn't. He seemed to, though.

"Are you sure you're ready to go back to work?"

_No_. "Yes."

Everyone treated her differently, be it because of her relationship with Grissom or just because she had been through a terrible, public ordeal. Catherine seemed a bit nicer, and her fake smile was so brittle it looked like it would break. Nick treated her like some sort of comrade. He kept bringing up being buried alive and asking her if they wanted to trade war stories over coffee. Warrick didn't challenge her whatsoever. Greg was quiet. Brass was sincere.

The dog treated her the same, though. He peed in her most comfortable pair of sneakers as a welcome home present. It was nice to know some things never changed.

Grissom watched her like a hawk. If she had been worried about his wandering eye after his little late night rap session with Lady Heather, she had the opposite problem now. He shadowed her. Where she went, he followed. Sara didn't have the energy to question it, let alone argue, so she just accepted that Grissom would be waiting outside of the ladies' room whenever she had to take a bathroom break. That they worked cases together was a given. And the boring, non-violent ones at that. Art thefts, liquor store robberies. No big action. Sara didn't care much either way. Oh, the Sara of yesteryear would have pitched a fit at her current caseload of rookie-level crimes. But this Sara…it didn't matter. Fingerprints were fingerprints. It was tedious work, but everything seemed tedious. Taking showers were tedious; getting dressed was tedious. The act of opening her eyes after eleven hours of sleep was mind-numbingly wearisome.

Grissom didn't seem to mind that she slept so much. It was easier for him to keep track of her when she was in bed. And every now and again, she'd let him make love to her. She didn't crave sex like she used to -- oh, she used to be a maniac when it came to screwing him -- but she knew he'd think she was punishing him if they didn't engage in lovemaking on at least a semi-regular basis. For those few moments of release, Sara felt something akin to peace, but it didn't last. He'd roll off of her and kiss her goodnight, satisfied with himself while she stared up at the ceiling, wondering why she lost the ability to feel happy.

Work continued and the weeks turned into months. Grissom was still as vigilant as ever, standing guard while Sara sighed as she looked at herself in the bathroom mirror at work.

"You need to be alone?"

She didn't bother to turn around at the sound of Catherine's voice.

"I'm fine." She said that a lot these days.

"You know Grissom's outside, right?"

"Yeah, he does that."

In the mirror, Sara could see her purse her lips. Catherine met the younger woman's eyes in the mirror and opened her mouth as if she was going to say something but couldn't find the words. Shaking her head, she disappeared into a bathroom stall. Sara took a prodigious amount of time washing her hands, cleaning them with care. She did that a lot these days. Her nails had been caked with mud by the time the Mustang had been lifted off of her, and while she had been cleaned off by the nurses after she was rushed to the hospital, there had still been earth deep in her fingernails when she checked out three days later. When Grissom brought her home to his townhouse, she had locked herself in the bathroom and trimmed her nails short, scrubbing them with a brush under scalding hot water until the last bit of dirt was gone.

Catherine quickly cleaned her hands off two sinks away and left the room, saying nothing. Knowing Grissom would be worried and thus ask a lot of tiring questions, Sara dried off her hands with several paper towels and exited the bathroom.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Fine."

And that's when she fainted at his feet.

_Just as I  
have come from afar, creating pain for many—  
men and women across the good green earth—  
so let his name be Odysseus…  
the Son of Pain, a name he'll earn in full._

Sara wouldn't remember Grissom's wild eyes at he screamed her name, cupping her face ever so gently as he called out for help. She wouldn't remember being loaded into the ambulance for the second time that year and being taken to the hospital. She wouldn't remember the painful ache in her abdomen as she began hemorrhaging blood at an alarming rate while the ER staff scrambled to diagnose her.

An ectopic pregnancy, they called it.

"Implantation was in the proximal tube," her doctor explained after she woke up from emergency surgery. "The fetus began to invade the Sampson artery. We performed a laparotomy and were able to fix the problem with minimal damage to the Fallopian tube."

Grissom squeezed her hand, but Sara said nothing.

When the doctor left the room, Grissom looked down at his feet. "Did you know? That you were pregnant, I mean."

"No."

He seemed relieved. "I'm so sorry, Sara."

Instead of asking him why he was sorry, she leaned her head back on her pillow and sighed.

Grissom took her home two days later, tenderly leading her to the bedroom by her elbow. The comforter had been peeled back, the bed waiting for her to climb in and rest. He sat her down on the edge and then bent down to remove her shoes.

"Why don't I feel anything?"

He looked up at her and furrowed his brows. "The pain medication, honey, it's--"

"No," she interrupted. "I should feel sad right now," she said blankly, staring past his shoulder, her eyes glazed over as if she were the bisque doll featured in the miniatures. "I was pregnant, and now I'm not. I should feel something. Anything."

He looked back down at her feet and continued removing her shoes. "You're just overwhelmed right now."

"Is that it?"

"Yes, honey," he said, getting up and walking to the dresser to find something for her to sleep in.

Argos wandered into the room, sniffing at his master before jumping up on the bed.

"Down, boy!" Grissom yelled, and the dog followed orders immediately, choosing to settle on the floor by the foot of the bed.

"I don't even hate the dog anymore."

"You hated the dog?" he asked absentmindedly, fishing out a tank top for her to wear.

Sara ignored the question, instead posing one of her own. "Why did you name him that?"

"Argos? That was Odysseus' dog. The most noble dog in all of literature. He waited twenty years for his master to return to Ithaca, dying only after he saw Odysseus again."

"So that makes me Penelope."

Grissom turned to eye her sharply. "What?"

"I wait for you. That's what I do. You…you do your thing. You go off and…I wait. You make decisions and I'm stuck." Her voice didn't carry any venom. She stated all plainly as fact.

Worry began to creep into the lines around his eyes. "Is that how you feel? What you think?"

She shrugged noncommittally. "Isn't that how the story goes?"

He took a step towards her. "Sara…"

"Do you love me?" The fear was gone. His answer was his answer.

"Of course."

"You've never said it."

"I…I feel it."

She locked her eyes on his. "Something is wrong with me."

Her tone was so steady, so serious, Grissom's arms fell to his sides as his gaze caught hers.

"One percent of pregnancies are ectopic. Meaning there was a ninety-nine percent chance I was going to have a baby," she said blankly. "With my past, with my parents…I should've felt something. Sadness? Relief? A mixture of the two? Something…" He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. "Don't say it's about Natalie. It's not about Natalie. I'm not in shock. I'm…I'm…I don't know."

Grissom gingerly took a seat next to her on the bed. "What do you want me to do? I'll do anything."

"If you were in my place, you'd leave. You'd go off and make me wait. And you'd come back when you got better…if you got better."

"Sara, I--"

"You would've told yourself you were protecting me, protecting yourself…I don't know. You would've made an excuse and I'd have to wait. Penelope all over again."

He pursed his lips, his eyes darting all over his face as he searched for his words. "Is this about the sabbatical?"

"I don't know." Tears began to gather in her eyes -- the first in ages -- as she recalled him leaving her alone in the locker room as he left for Massachusetts. "You've made me work for your love," she whispered. A tear escaped and she squeezed her eyes shut. "I can't anymore."

He tentatively put an arm around her shoulder, drawing her to him. His lips grazed her ear. "You don't have to work for my love. Sara, I…I love you so much," he croaked, his voice full of emotion.

"You never told me."

"I'm telling you now."

"I needed to hear that a long time ago," she told him, her voice hitching as she rose from the bed. She walked down the hall to the bathroom. The click of Argos' nails on the hardwood had her looking up from her spot on the closed toilet seat. He regarded her for a solid minute, his eyes boring into hers with a human-like intensity. He took a step forward and sniffed her before turning to the bathtub and hopping in. Sara let out a choked sob. "No. No bath now." The dog rested his head on the rim of the tub and waited. The tears began to leak uncontrollably from her eyes as she slid to her knees on the tile, sliding across the surface to grip Argos' collar. Instead of tugging him out of the tub, she leaned forward, resting her head on the porcelain rim next to his as she cried. He panted in her ear, slobbery breaths that seemed to echo in the tiled room.

"I can get rid of the dog."

Eyes wet and puffy, Sara looked up at the doorway and found Grissom there, the look on his face nothing short of lost.

"No," she sniffed, turning to Argos.

"Please don't get rid of me."

There was a pleading tone in his voice, one that matched the desperation she had felt early on in their relationship. "I don't think I can do that."

He exhaled loudly, kneeling down behind her and wrapping his arms around her body lightly, careful not to aggravate her tender abdomen.

"I'm in trouble, Gil," she whispered. "I need your help."

"You have it."

THE END


End file.
